All the Yesterdays Before Today
by WhiteFlowersOnOurBacks
Summary: As a child Blaine cried whenever anyone left him. At the age of 27 he thinks he's starting to understand why.
1. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow

**A/N: This is my first ever Glee fic, although far from my first ever fanfiction. I hadn't even been planning on writing for this fandom but I woke up one morning with part of this stuck in my head and spent several days dwelling on it before I wrote it down.  
Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Not even an awesome Ninja Turtles lunchbox. :-(  
Warnings: Talk of character death.**

As a child he cried whenever anyone left him. And it was never just a little sniffle and a couple of tears, it was always a full on hysterical sobbing. It started right after his first birthday and lasted until he was about six. It got to the point where his father lived in a separate apartment and was only home on weekends- his job made it impossible for him to work from home and it broke his wife's heart to have to hold a devastated Blaine every morning.

He started school a year late and had over-the-phone therapy sessions up to three times a week. He could never explain it, why he was always convinced that every time was going to be the last time he saw the people he loved.

The problem stopped as quickly as it had started, one Sunday in mid-June. His father had just left for his apartment and, like always, he stood at the end of the driveway watching his car disappear down the road. His mother stood anxiously next to him waiting to comfort her baby boy but the tears never came. Instead he just looked up at her and calmly said 'I wish he lived with us during the week," before running off to play with his toy lawn mower. And that had pretty much been that.

That August his father had permanently moved back in with them and in September he started kindergarten, blushing crimson at how much his mother cried at the bus stop that first morning and overwhelmingly proud of his Ninja Turtles lunch box.

Maybe then, in his earliest years, he knew that this would happen. That at the age of 27 (too young, much too young he heard people whispering as they stared sadly down at him) he'd be spending months in and out of the hospital. In his youth he spent the tears that now he was too tired to.

He wondered if everyone who saw him felt like he did as a child. Torn by a devastating heartbreak every time they left because a voice in the back of their head whispered that this could be the last. The last time they laughed with him, talked to him, saw him. The doctors said he had time, it could be another two or three years. But the fear was there, very real and very present. He wondered why they kept coming back if their hearts broke so fiercely every time they left.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

He grappled to pull his attention from the window and to the man sitting next to him. It was harder than usual for him to keep his mind present, from wandering away to somewhere, anywhere better. He shrugged.

"Something is obviously bugging you. You should tell me. It'll make you feel better." And there was that irresistible pout, the one that he could never say no to, even now.

He paused for a minute, trying to gather his thoughts and, most importantly, not to cry. "I know everyone has to die someday. That I have to die someday. I just," he choked back a sob. 'I just don't want that day to be today."

"Oh, baby," Kurt gasped, clutching his hand tightly, too tightly. He felt the bones crunch together, his ring digging into his other fingers. It was nice. A new pain, a different pain. One he knew would go away as soon as Kurt released his grip, not linger on and eat away at him from the inside. "I know it must be hard. But the doctors say you still have so much time. And you're doing so much better then you were last week." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I even heard them talking about releasing you in a few days. Then you can come home and sleep in our bed and I'll bring you breakfast every morning."

"French toast?" He asked hopefully, eyes lighting up with a hint of their old spark. "With cinnamon apples and bacon?"

"With anything you want. If you get yourself better really quick I'll even make you those crepes you like so much. The ones I only make for Christmas and birthdays." He nudged his husband's side, hoping to illicit another smile.

"Was it really that bad?" Blaine asked softly. He hadn't even earned special crepes after he was originally diagnosed and had to spend nearly two months (56 days, to be precise. 56 long and tedious days) going in and out of the hospital.

"No. No, no. No," Kurt backtracked quickly. "It wasn't." And it hadn't been, not comparatively. He was recovering quickly, at least. But it had been so unexpected. One day he was fine, maybe a little tired and the next Kurt was coming home from his run to the grocery store to a driveway filled with flashing lights.

"I think it scared Aidan a lot though. Since we agreed to try and keep him away from this place as much as possible, he'd never really seen you looking like _that._I tried to explain it to him more, but he's too young to understand, really. He told me to tell you to eat more spinach." The smile was back, but nothing like before. They sat in silence, overwhelmed by all the things they didn't know how to say. Kurt hummed softly, his fingers tapping out a pattern on the side of the bed.

"Dr. Mulberg said you can walk around for a bit again today. We can go down to the cafeteria and have our Sunday afternoon coffee date? And if you're still feeling okay Dad can bring Aidan over for a little bit. He scored his first goal in soccer and I know he's excited to tell you all about it. Apparently I'm not enthusiastic enough about sports for him."

Blaine sighed. He hadn't seen his son in two days and he missed him. He hated himself for missing the boy's first goal, hated his body for keeping him from the soccer field. "Maybe tomorrow, Kurt. I didn't sleep well last night and people have been in and out all day. I'm just really tired," he said closing his eyes.

"Do you want me to crawl in with you?"

"No. It's okay. The hospital staff wasn't very receptive of that last time." The corners of his mouth twitched upward in a smirk. Kurt blushed. "I know you have to go soon. Just hold my hand until I fall asleep?"

"Of course, doofus."

Blaine settled back against the pillows. He had long ago given up trying to be comfortable in these beds. Nowadays he considered anything that wasn't actively causing him discomfort to be good enough. But he knew sleep was a long time coming. His exhaustion was bone deep and couldn't be relieved with a full 8 hours.

He hated Sundays. They meant a constant trickle of people. All his visitors looked at him the same way, with an overly bright enthusiasm that shuddered to a halt whenever they thought he wasn't looking. Conversations were stilted and more often than not one sided; a monologue directed at him in what they considered appropriate topics.

He tried not to resent them this time too much. He understood how important it was to them. Santana drove four hours every other week to be there. Trent came every week directly from church, filled with the belief that his hours of prayer could make some sort of difference. Friends from work and college who lived locally had a moment to spare from their otherwise crazy lives.

He appreciated it, he really did. He always smiled when Santana sashayed in. If he was having an especially bad week she'd be wearing a candy striper outfit, an extra saucy wink, and carrying an extra-large stuffed bear. It was always the same one. "Like I have the income to buy you a new one every single time,' she scoffed. He whined and pouted whenever she took him away but she just smirked and promised he could keep it once he was completely recovered.

They were his friends and he loved them. He just resented their ability to leave. The fact that this was only their lives for half-an-hour a week and then they were free to go home to their families, cook dinner for their kids, and sleep with their loved ones. Even Kurt walked out of here at the end of the day. Headed home to read a bedtime story to their son. He resented them their lives and the fact that they could still live them and, even more so, the fact that the insisted on spending hours wasting away with him.

He didn't stir as the sound of Kurt's ringtone filled the room-a giddy sunburst of laughter that seemed so out of place in the drab hospital room. He deepened his breathing and relaxed his muscles. People only ever said what they really thought when he was sleeping.

"Hey, Wes" Kurt whispered. Blaine felt his eyes flickering over him, trying to gauge whether or not he was awake before letting out a tremulous sigh, clearly having decided he wasn't. "I think he's having a rough day. He hasn't really said anything though, and the doctor's don't seem too concerned. But he's sleeping and its barely even 4."

He paused, listening to whatever Wes was saying. "No, I'm sure you're right. You know me, I just worry." He laughed weakly. "I don't think he's up for it tonight. I'll leave the laptop, just in case, but I'd tell her not to count on it." Another pause. "Yeah. You too. Give my best to Mags. And tell Clara that we love her. That he loves her."

Blame's heart sunk as Kurt hung up his phone. He was meant to Skype his goddaughter today and help her with her history project that was due Thursday. Another Sunday tradition. Started 5 months ago after the 6th and 7th specialists' said the same thing. If (the emphasis was always heavily placed on the if) he made it through the first 6 months all he could hope for was another 2 or 3 years at the most.

It hadn't sunk in yet, when Wes had called him. After hearing the news he had gotten suspiciously quiet for a long time before saying that he and Mags had a huge dinner party to organize and could Blaine maybe help Clara with her homework? It was math and if Blaine could pass AP Calc as a sophomore surely he wouldn't have problems with 1st grade arithmetic. (Although he was pretty sure it had gotten a lot harder since he was 6. He was positive he didn't even know what a fraction was until 3rd grade.)

Over the next few weeks books began arriving at his house, so he could read along with her. He had a folder on his computer with scans of her spelling lists. They never talked about why. Never said that this was something he'd probably never be able to do with his own son. He'd never feel the pride of Aidan spelling his first 10 letter word, or hearing him recite all 50 states in alphabetical order.

It had broken Kurt's heart when he figured it out. Six weeks in and Blaine beaming at her perfect recitation of a Shel Silverstein poem.

"Don't say it," Blaine begged eyes wide and desperate. "Don't ruin this for me." Kurt had hurriedly left the room and spent the next hour sobbing in the shower and then the rest of the evening avoiding his husband because what the hell could you say after that?

This was the first time since it started that he'd willingly given up the chance to help. It would worry Wes and was clearly bothering Kurt. Everyone getting worked up over nothing. It had becoming quite the bad habit of theirs.

Everyone was allowed an off day sometimes. He claimed today as his. Today he just wanted to lay here with his eyes closed and his husband's hands clenched around his. Tomorrow he'd call Clara, right after she got out of school and before she had dance. Tomorrow he'd see his son and go on a coffee date.

He'd be out by the end of the week. Just in time to start packing for their yearly trip to the Cape. He wouldn't be able to sail this year but he could find something new to take up. Maybe spinning sugar. Or juggling. Juggling he could do with Aidan. And he could start playing the cello again. It had been too long since he'd last done that. He couldn't even remember why he stopped.

So many plans for the next month, the next few years. So many dreams and so little time to fulfil them. _Tomorrow_, he thought wearily. He'd start on them tomorrow.


	2. today, today, today

**Because we never get the ending that we want.  
****Umm, lines shamelessly stolen from Third Eye Blind, Lord of the Rings, Pirates of the Caribbean, Peter Pan, Darren Criss, Shakespeare. Possibly others? (Not in order)**

**For everyone who ever said I should write something as a stream of consciousness.**

* * *

_A flash of light on the burial shroud._His mind hazily supplied. He couldn't remember where it was from, if they were his words or someone else's or what they originally meant. He wasn't sure how they applied to his situation, or even what situation was in. But somehow they seemed right.

Everything was hazy, suspended permanently in that moment between sleeping and waking. The voices that echoed in his ears had to be real, because the place where his mind was was too tranquil for such panic. Occasionally he strove to get to them. Pulled by some unseen force that was calling him home, always shying away at the last second because it was too bright.

Bright wasn't even the right word, just the only word. Too much all around but not enough to keep him anchored whenever he floated back.

Or was it forward? Maybe he wasn't floating. Maybe he was drowning.

Maybe. Maybe.

_Wake up, wake up. You can't leave me. Not yet. _Chanted over and over. But it wasn't time to wake. It was time to sleep. He knew because it was dark. Dark like just before the dawn when you rolled over and went back to sleep.

Or maybe it wasn't. He couldn't tell anymore.

Was dark when you couldn't open your eyes? Or when you didn't?

There was a steady beeping, that mixed in with the voices. It was always there, unlike the voices. The voices changed. Became higher or louder or deeper or faster. The beep was steady, it was constant. Except sometimes he thought it wasn't, that it got faster too. But then it got drowned out by a clamor, and there was yelling and everything was frantic before he stopped hearing altogether.

But sooner or later it was back. _Beep. Beep. Beep. _

_Nothing we can do. Only time will tell. _He heard that a lot too. Or maybe he felt it. Could you feel words? All he knew was that he didn't like the way they tasted in his mouth. Heavy and regretful and unsure.

He missed the taste of coffee. Bitter and warm. Medium drip. Sunday mornings. A hint of cinnamon in the winter. Or was it the fall?

Maybe he was falling and it wasn't water he was trapped in, but the air. The ether. Suspended. Like a kite.

An image of a boy and a kite. Running through a field somewhere. Not home. But maybe once it had been. Years ago, but not that long. Time was drawn out by suffering. He'd been here for eons. _Every day as long as a life age._

Not his words? But his memories. The boy and the field. And a man, standing next to him.

_Kudin_._Aidurt_._Kaid_. _Kurt_. _Aidan_. The names twisted together in the dark recesses of his head before unfurling before him.

They were waiting for him.

Or maybe they weren't. His eyes were open and the room was empty, except for a comically large bear that was propped up in the corner. Bigger than him, maybe. But that could have been years ago.

Still not awake, because he'd never wake up alone. His eyes fell closed (only they'd never been open to begin with). Once, twice, three times.

The brightness was less ethereal. Not as blinding. (He remembered blindness, but only in one eye. And only for a short period of time. Enforced by a patch and eased by a smile. A smile bright enough to light up a room.) Maybe that's what he's seeing now. A smile.

Not a smile. But a face. Stretched tight with worry and pale from not enough sleep. Except for the dark patches, angry and purpled that made crescents under his eyes. No smile. Had forgotten how to laugh.

Don't forget. Never forget. _Amor_, it never forgets.

Eyes closed again, but only for a little while. Daybreak was coming. _Keep a weather (whether? wither?) eye on the horizon._ Still not his words, but this time he knew. Could see the sea, could feel the sandy beach. Not his feet on the beach. But he had been, could remember the feel of it between his own toes, could imagine it between theirs.

_A kiss. There's a thought._ His thought. He's pretty sure. And a guitar he picked up at a yard sale.

"Kurt?" He said, mouth cotton dry and forgetting how to work. Arms unable to remember how to move, but hands knowing they were seeking something.

"Blaine?" Too fast movement, a flailing of limbs that unfolded themselves from where they were curled up. Anxious grasping, unsure whether to reach for the button or his husband's hand. A sharp gasp from somewhere else. They weren't alone. but it was too much effort to look around. The door opening, then closing. Two hands on his, trembling.

"Five more minutes?" He pleaded, eyes getting heavy again. "Promise I'll get up. Pinky swear even." Lifting up his hand and hooking it around his husband's pinky, pulling tight. And there was the laughter, a faint chime of a giggle. Forced and rusty.

"You can't break a pinky promise. Aidan would be so disappointed," Kurt tried to tease.

"I won't," he swore. A gentleman. _Ever precise in his promise keeping._ Always a man of his word.

A new anchor. This one better than the ones before. A man and a boy, waving him home. Something to set guide by. His beacon.

The bear was still in the chair when he woke up again. Forced himself into a sitting position and looked around the room. Kurt hunched in one chair, Wes in another. The stuffed animal the only one staring at him.

He wondered if it was a sign. Santana always said when he got better. Maybe this was better. From here on out it would only get worse, something everyone else knew. He just hadn't been around for the announcement.

Who would tell him? He hoped a doctor, someone he had never seen before. A death sentence should be as impersonal as possible, delivered by the tongue of a stranger. Someone impartial to the suffering.

"Kurt?" He whispered, but wasn't heard.

A minute. Two minutes. Should they all be precious because he had so few left? Should he be drinking in the men on either side of his bed? Memorizing their features to take with him, wherever he was bound for?

They weren't the images he wanted. Too tired, too worn, looking nothing like themselves. Wes' shirt had a crease in it and Kurt's hair was greasy. Not the men of his life, they already belonged to a world that had no place for him.

He was glad he couldn't see himself.

He shut his eyes, yearning to chase away the red-eyed demon forms of all the people he loved. Tried to fill up his mind with the bright laughter that made him love them best. He was stuck on his mother, though. Couldn't remember if it was the left or right side of her mouth that curled up into a smile first. A mystery he'd take to the grave, he was sure. He'd never see her smile again. Never see anyone smile again, not without tears in their eyes.

Maybe he should just go back. To that place where he'd always love them. Neither here nor there. Drift off and wait.

No. He couldn't. He owed them those last moments. Because he was the one going, when they were all forced to stay. Except that wasn't right. He was the one being forced. He wanted to stay.

His life stretched before him, one endless Sunday.

The mantra that thrummed throughout him changed. Switching from the lazy _tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow_ to the thudding of _today. today. today. _


End file.
